


wlets

by orphan_account



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Gen, Hospitals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-20
Updated: 2021-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-29 02:48:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30149604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: are hospitals scary?





	wlets

**Author's Note:**

> simply a deleted scene from a lengthy fic i'm writing that i took 3 days to write and i hated it

Kenma Kozume is sort of used to the smell of synthetic fragrances.

Breathing them in is not so easy. Literally. It's not because they smell bad or anything. His lungs  _ literally _ feel as though they are shrinking by the day. He can’t see his lungs at the moment due to obvious reasons, but he is so sure that they look like those nasty sun-dried grapes the nurse gives him every so often. It’s almost like if he inhales too much, his ribs might tear through his chest to generate some more room for the air he needs. 

Hospitals give him even more room to inhale and exhale without judgy looks and backhanded condolences (you don’t just walk up to someone and say you’re sorry for having a sick child). Hospitals are not that scary. Perhaps that’s just a personal opinion (it is).

Yachi always sang lyrics of uncertainty into his ears to which he used to cry asleep to when her words first touched him.  _ Used to _ , not anymore. Her voice drenches in pity, masked by poise to forbid inevitable connections. But she cannot forbid information the patient  _ needs _ to know, to hear, to  _ accept _ . She tends to hesitate, he gets it… somewhat. Despite that, her words effortlessly fall out once she gathers them, and never have they failed to claw into his stomach.

Once people start to realize, hospitals were never scary. They are terrified of the pain that follows death inside.

The thing little kids could never comprehend while grown adults shove pills down their throat to repress dwells too comfortably in his lungs. All Kenma had to do was accept it.

Death was never pretty.

There is nothing pretty about the grim reaper holding his and other sick hands behind the hospital's walls until it decides that the time to go home has come. There is something ugly about the breaths that shake in the air a bit too fast for them to stabilize. Everything about seeing their legs tremble beneath them as they struggle to stand is hideous. Disgusting sobs and confessions never freed from their chest endlessly pour and pour.

Nurses cradle them with remorseful hands, almost as if they’re terrified that they could completely shatter them with a single touch. The only words to be forced out of their lips, “I’m sorry.” Not because it was their fault, but they are  _ scared _ that it was.

Kenma barely understands. He has been a victim to the tears submerging his mother’s bloodshot eyes. It's agonizing to even look at her, listen to her, talk to her. Glossy streaks replace them by the time visiting hours are over. At the end of every visit, she stays quiet, and Kenma likes it that way. Though her silence always leaves his ears ringing.

This visit is no different, maybe even worse. 

“I’m sorry.” A line as sorry as it could ever be from a nurse.

Words never left her mouth. Breathless wheezes and cracks are stuck deep in her stomach. He doesn’t know what to say or what he can do to comfort her- Kenma wishes that he could die already- so neither of them needs to hear their own mournings echo in their ears.

Yachi said the estimated time was two months. Maybe less. Maybe more.

He always took his medications, his treatments, checked his blood sugar, always ate enough. The grim reaper could not care any less. And neither did Kenma. He doesn’t want to put up a fight for his mom anymore. He already knew he could never win this painful race. He never wanted to win ever since he was aware it started. So please, catch up to him so he can lose.

He faces the window to stare at nothing as his mother’s cries seep to the bottom floor of the hospital.

His eyes begin to burn. He blinks away the blurry lines of his room. Each blink builds onto the other, hindering his vision more and more. Until his eyelids are exhausted, the feeling floods his face. He hates this- he doesn't know what to call it, nor does he even have a name for it. All he knows, he is dizzy from the screaming of his heartbeat. All he knows is that it hurts a bit too much.

All he wants is to die.

All he needs is to breathe


End file.
